


The Heretic's Prayer

by orphan_account



Series: The Scifi AU Nobody Asked For [1]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, No Magic AU, SCIFI AU, Sloppy Seconds, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 19:40:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8414077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It's difficult to worship a god who gets bored so quickly.But at least he finds desperation interesting.





	

“You’ve been hiding from me,” he says, and the Outsider doesn’t have to look to know who it is.

The accusation is ridiculous; the Outsider doesn’t hide, he blends; blends with the faceless crowds and gormless, hunched masses of factory workers, blends with the thick clouds of steam and smoke, with the servants, with the shadows. He has never hidden from anyone in his life, and least of all has he hidden from this anyone.

“Daud,” he acknowledges, and takes another drag on his cigarette.

The sun is a threat on a distant horizon, but it won’t break for an hour or so. The Outsider isn’t mean with his attention; as long as there are stars in the sky, he has time to spare. Aside that, the fact that Daud has found him is… Interesting. He knows the assassin rarely leaves the safety of his own hideaway in the flooded district.

He feels the body shift behind him on the fire escape, a solid body balancing on rickety metal rusted past point of safety. He might melt right through it - Daud is an inferno, brightly burning and hot enough to sear even between all their winter layers. His breath floats over the Outsider’s shoulder, cold air converted to steam, thick enough to overwhelm the exhalation of literal smoke from his own mouth. He knows that Daud is proud of himself for that without looking.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t touch the shoulders in front of him. Even through gloves and the layer of the Outsider’s sweater, he knows that isn’t allowed. He doesn’t touch without permission, he understands that. But his lips are only a centimeter from the boy’s neck. “The world’s gotten cold.”

“And here I thought blood kept you warm.” There’s an acrid note in his voice, but it only makes Daud grin.

“Blood cools fast enough. Don’t tell me that’s what you’ve been dwelling on all this time?”

“Hardly.” The Outsider takes another drag from his cigarette. The red tip is brilliant with the wetness and heat of being sucked on; a rose petal in place of a filter that leaves a little stain of pink in the center of his lips. The colour is so glaring in the dusky greys of their world that it almost hurts to look at, but Daud admires it anyway. “Gods aren’t wont to listen when prayers get repetitive.”

“If you consecrate me again,” Daud tells him in a hushed tone, “I’ll recite whatever you want. I swear.”

The Outsider clicks his tongue, expression bored as he turns around to face the other man, not even twitching at how very close they are. He breathes smoke out into his face on an equally bored sigh.

“Blind servitude doesn’t suit you. And it certainly doesn’t suit me. Go home.”

He can’t deny he’s somewhat surprised by the hands that shoot out, that fix at the bars on either side of him. The Outsider raises one eyebrow before he deftly sticks the end of his cigarette into Daud’s right hand.

Daud doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink. His eyes are focused, intense.

“I’ll drown the both of us out here before I let you ignore me again,” he promises.

The flooded district has been Daud’s home since he’s been in Dunwall, since the Outsider has come to know him. It suits him – a financial district that sinks underwater every morning to make way for the mercantile vessels that come in from far out in the sea, so they can sail right up to the richer districts and create the floating market. Daud knows when the windows and doors of every home will lock, when it will be impossible to get inside. The low hum of the alarm and flashing lights that let everyone else know follow shortly after his promise.

The Outsider would survive, and yet. He isn’t fond of being wet.

“Come inside, if you’re really so desperate.” The Outsider can hear the way breathes in sharply when he presses a palm to his chest. There are other ways he has to bring men to yield, but contact is by far the easiest solution at times.

They climb in through an open window, and Daud shuts it behind himself without being ordered. It would have closed automatically, but the Outsider isn’t bothered about the assassin’s paranoid quirks.

The noise causes another reaction, though, and one his wolf wasn’t expecting – a groan, and a shifting on the mattress cattycornered against one of the walls. The setup is larger than his usual, and the bed outfitted with a blanket this time, but he can tell it’s the man who causes every hair on Daud to prickle.

“Be a good killer and stay quiet. He’s had a very long night,” the Outsider says, and the look that Daud gives him would wither a weaker man. But the Outsider is not a weaker man, and he’s perfectly calm when a large hand seizes his arm. His mark glows brilliantly in the violet glow of the blacklights, even through the thick weft of Daud's glove.

“What’s the matter, Daud?” the Outsider asks, amused. “Surely the presence of another disciple only increases one’s faithful fervor?”

Corvo will not awaken; not until long after the Outsider has departed, when the waters recede and the new night is upon them. Void is arguably the most powerful drug he makes, and recovery from it is impossible without sufficient time, so the chemist dosed him with sedatives accordingly.

Not that he shares this information with Daud.

“Or are you thinking of the woman you slaughtered? Are you thinking of the little girl you sold, that you made him work to steal back?” he asks. His voice is sweet and low and poisonous. Daud flinches.

“He’s quite undone,” the Outsider whispers. He leans towards Daud, wraps his arms around his neck like a lover proper and lets his lips brush the ear before them. “And yet he’s got less blood on his whole than you’ve got on one hand.”

When Daud swallows, the Outsider’s mouth sucks against his adam’s apple.

“You took him in to make a point, did you?” Daud hisses, and the Outsider’s lips stretch into a grin.

“As if you’ve ever been that important.” He untethers himself from Daud, walking farther into the little apartment. Someone once lived here, but every object of domesticity has been removed. It’s little more personal than any other hide away that the Outsider has made for himself. “No… Desperation merely produces interesting circumstances. You might say you introduced us, if much can be said for you at all.”

Daud closes the door that separates the side room to the living area of the apartment. Outside, the siren wail dies, low. The buildings shake, terribly, once. Neither Daud, nor the Outsider, nor any of the equipment that’s been securely bolted to tables or the wall, move much.

But they are quiet, the two of them. It’s the automatic reaction of entering into an elevator; communication ceases, as though to speak in such a transitory place would bring only destruction and terror for all those present.

When the building shakes again, they are secure. A low, steady buzz lets everyone know that it’s safe to move around again, and Daud takes the moment to reach forward. His gloved hand brushes against the Outsider’s cheek, too familiar, too aching. The Outsider has touched him, and so touch is allowed; even he knows that a kiss would be overstepping himself.

“I don’t care about him. I don’t care about myself. I care about you,” he says. “You marked me. You made me yours. Let me be yours.”

“As if you ever stopped.” The Outsider’s eyes are on him, regarding him coolly. But it’s been so long that Daud doesn’t care about that, either. Still looking at him, their gazes still connected, he moves to sink to his knees.

Daud is not a humble man, and he is not soft; he’s rigid, and for all the heat of him he’s remarkably disciplined. But he bends for the Outsider; he is so much clay, eager to be sculpted by the sculptor, even if it means breaking him down to fine dust from the form he’s forged for himself.

The nanobots in his hand burn, the mark itching bright as it did when they were first injected into him, the contract sealed. He knows it’s being so close to the Outsider, their systems going haywire as they react to the synth they originated from. He can take that pain. He can do it for the reward of being near.

This isn’t romantic. It isn’t purely sexual, either. Daud isn’t a man concerned with those things.

But he has need of something larger than himself, and a stunningly dispassionate attitude towards the church. Such a need gives a man want of something better; the Outsider is that. The Outsider will always be that.

“Clean me up,” he says, imperfect fingers sifting through the close-cropped hair in front of him.

This close, Daud can smell the sex he suspected happened before hand. But he doesn’t care about it, can’t care about it when the Outsider is so very close. He grips the Outsider’s thighs with his hands, and bends to press his mouth and nose forward into the brushing of dark curls that peep out from the hem of his sweater.

Maybe it should bother him. Maybe tasting another man’s come inside his idol’s cunt should fill him with a rage that not even the sea can quench. Instead, he drives his tongue in farther, works his mouth open to lap out the slick, viscous evidence. He swallows it down, better disciplined than to spit it on the ground, wiser than to make the Outsider’s shrine a place of filth, even at the most derelict of altars.

His flesh is no different from human, his bodily fluids the same. He tastes real, tastes bitter and salty, and Daud has to work deep into him to clean him. It’s no fault of his that his prick reacts, no fault after his nose is buried into those musky curls, and his lips are kissing at such soft skin.

He feels the Outsider’s foot slip against it. Daud spreads his thighs and groans against the hot flesh of his cunt; if this is what the Outsider wants, this is what he’ll have. Daud, himself, is an offering.

The other foot moves to his shoulder, confident in Daud’s grasp, in the fact that he’ll take the weight primarily placed on his cock, painful and extreme.

Instinctively, he knows he isn’t meant to touch himself. And that’s alright, really, because he isn’t sure he could do much more than what the Outsider does to him now, the pressure of his sole rocking against him, from the tips of his toes to the back of his heel, movements hard and precise, growing harder as Daud laps and sucks and kisses.

He only moves to the Outsider’s clit when he’s completely free of come, when there’s nothing left to clean. The thin fingers in his hair grip him hard, make his scalp ache and bristle, but he pays no more mind to it than to the searing pain in his hand. It’s worth it; it’s always worth it.

His lips move in a thousand prayers and beatifications, his tongue tracing the arch and hollow of the swollen crest again and again. Every so often, he breaks, pressing an open mouthed kiss as wide as he can, but he always comes back to his clit. Daud understands his function, knows well enough how to worship, even as a consummate heretic.

That’s his entire world, for a moment. The pressure on his prick, the soft skin beneath his tongue and lips. The scent and feeling of the Outsider, so fucking close. Everything perfect without alteration, without any drug or enhancement, escalating towards wonder.

He feels the Outsider pull out a few strands of his hair, violent with orgasm. But so many more violent things had passed between them that he feels barely anything at all except the way that the boy shakes in his grasp, thighs revolting against gravity as his body spasms.

Daud only lets go of him when the Outsider pushes his hands away, uses his shoulders as a grip to sink down, hooking his legs over the assassin’s hips. He can feel the wet heat of his swollen labia over the rigid form of his own cock, and the pressure almost makes him gasp. But the Outsider’s eyes lock with his, and there is a total quiet demanded in that profane interaction.

“Are you still missing your deity, Daud?” he asks, and touches the other man’s lips. A sigh passes over them, and Daud bows his head towards their touch.

“No,” he says, “I see you.”

 


End file.
